


The Welcome Feast

by StrivingArtist



Series: Delicious [2]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: But Not Much, Dirty Talk, Food Porn, Frustrated Thorin, Horny Thorin, Its apparently what I do, M/M, Masturbation, PWP, Sad day to be Thorin, Sassy Bilbo, Shameless Smut, Thorin POV, Top Bilbo, actually there is a bit of plot, but then it isn't, humorous porn, smut smut smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2015-10-04
Packaged: 2018-04-06 19:19:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4233624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StrivingArtist/pseuds/StrivingArtist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin is King Under the Mountain. He should learn to think about political appointments before he has to face the consequences. Now he has to go two months without his hobbit. Unfortunately, this is Thorin, and patient isn't the word to describe him on this subject.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tending his Bellows

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Avelera](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avelera/gifts).



Thorin groaned and shifted in the chair, tightening his fist as he stroked himself a little faster with his now slicked hand, falling into a decent rhythm and grumbling that he had to take care of this at all.

Thorin and Bilbo had spent the last five months exploring the innumerable locations around Erebor that were suitable for carnal defilement. Many of the unsuitable ones as well, as their bruises could attest. And since every time a new section of the Mountain was cleaned and restored there was a new location to explore and sully, it was was a wonder that either of them were ever more than boneless puddles of sticky sated flesh.

But they persevered through this terrible burden, and occasionally made it as much as four days before attacking one another and testing the strength of various pieces of furniture.

It was the happiest Thorin had ever been, and that included the incident with the barrel of sugar he and Frerin had stolen as children.

Bilbo was by his side in meetings more often than not and could always be counted on to placate the offended parties before blades were drawn. That skill was why Thorin had named him Erebor’s Official Negotiator for Elven Matters. It was that or start a new war. And Bilbo had informed him that if that happened, he would walk out of the mountain and never look back.

So, he was put in charge of all things related to the pointy eared bastards. Thorin had been very proud of that decision.

As was often the case, Thorin had not thought about the consequences of his most excellent plan.

At the end of the summer, the negotiations had adjourned to Mirkwood.

Bilbo had gone with them.

That was nearly two months ago.

Thorin had _not thought this through._

He hadn’t needed to tend his own bellows since he and Bilbo had finally managed to put themselves on the same page regarding their mutual need to ravish each other. It wasn’t as if he had forgotten how to slake his own - frankly granite like - tumescence. That wasn’t a skill one forgets. Like cleaning a sword.

No, his hand knew exactly what his cock liked.

A century and a half of private practice had taught him the best way to hammer his anvil. He knew that his left nipple was more sensitive than his right thanks to a battle scar. He knew exactly how much oil he needed to keep the glide of his hand smooth without dripping excessively. He knew to twist his wrist as the circle of his fingers reached the base so as to brush against his stones and send little vibrations of pleasure up his spine.

In other words, he knew exactly how to polish his axe in the dark outside of camp at a speed fast enough to keep anyone from coming to investigate.

However, since the departure of his hobbit, it just wasn’t the same.

Sensation alone used to be enough to topple him over the edge.

Now, even though he was alarmingly hard and almost desperate to come, he knew it would not be satisfying if he did.

But Bilbo was returning tomorrow. One more evening left.

He sped up. Oiled fingers sliding easily and contrasting the rough calluses of his palm scraping sharp sensation that coiled and tightened inside him.  His breath hitched at the thought of it being Bilbo’s hand not his own. His hobbit’s hands were softer, but he would run his thumb up the underside of his cock, firmer than the rest of his fist before flicking the digit over the head and descending again. Oh Father’s Forges that hobbit was talented with his hands.

And somehow even better kneeling between his thighs. A fantasy of Bilbo wearing naught but Thorin’s crown swallowed his focus for a moment.

Tomorrow he would just stay strong during the audiences and focus on the elves that would be accompanying his hobbit. It would be best to avoid any politically disastrous mid-throne room nudity.

Yes. That would work.

He would just stay strong.

The plan would work better if he could find some relief tonight though. Knowing that Bilbo was nearby, as close as Dale maybe, was… a... a problem. It meant that he had spent most of day awkwardly shifting on the throne to alleviate the discomfort of his trousers. But now that he was free of that constrainment, he couldn’t seem to see it done.

In Thorin’s defense, he had probably had more sex in those five months than he had in the last five decades, and he had grown accustomed to it. His hand, well trained as it was couldn’t compare to Bilbo. To Bilbo’s mouth.

Oh the things that hobbit could do with his mouth.

Throin dropped his head against the back of the chair and started to pound his fist down. It really was just a fantastic image, images rather. Bilbo hadn’t been lying about it being a favorite. But the evening Thorin had dismissed the guards from the throne room? Perfect.

Up and down, twisting his wrist at the base, flicking his thumb at the top, trying to mimic the motion Bilbo had perfected. That left him begging for release or mercy. On one occasion begging for death if Bilbo wouldn’t allow him to come.

Mahal, he was going to need more oil if this took much longer.

Bilbo. The throne room. That was the way to get it done. The glow of the Arkenstone glinting on Bilbo’s hair as he sank down and sucked long and deep. The slight echo of the hum against his cock in Bilbo’s throat when he ran fingers over those immeasurably sensitive ears. Especially that soft point hiding just below them.

He was breathing heavier now, recalling or reliving or imaging the feel of Bilbo between his legs. He was so hopelessly tied up around that blasted hobbit, and if the delegation was late returning, he was just going to ride out and meet them. That was all there was to it. He’d bring a damn tent, maybe he’d even get it set up before he had Bilbo breathless and laid out beneath him in nothing but Thorin’s furs and jewels.

Heat started to wind a bit thicker in his gut and he moaned a little.

He didn’t even realize that he had moaned a name.

No, that occurred to him later because there was suddenly a voice in the room with him.

“Did you get any work done while I was gone, or did you just spend all your time like this?”

Not even Thorin, who prided himself on his composure could manage to gracefully respond to being caught mid polish in a chair by a fire in another person’s room.

There was a bit of flailing. A bit of an unpleasant yank. He definitely knocked over the little jar of oil. He frantically hid the handkerchief under his leg. And if he was asked, he would just pretend that he had placed the pipe on the floor earlier.

At least he restrained himself from trying to stand.

That wouldn’t have gone well.

Lowered trousers and whatnot.

Fortunately, the speaker’s voice took pity on him, as he always did. Bilbo - amazing, wonderful, gorgeous, _early_ \- Bilbo, crossed the room to pull Thorin back in the chair, tilting his head up and kissing him. That wicked tongue ran along his lower lip, flitting to brush against his own questing tongue before continuing its path over his upper lip. Bilbo taunted him for a moment, pulling away before he could deepen the kiss. But when he finally sunk in and kissed him properly, he was tingling with need.

This was nice. A new angle, just when Thorin had begun to suspect that they had exhausted them all.

Short trimmed nails ran furrows through his hair, and a soft, content groan was swallowed by the hobbit above him. The luxuriant treatment of his hair continued after the kiss ended.

“You’re just like the puppies I played with as a faunt.” Thorin hummed agreement, willing to concede any point as long as he continued. Which he did, “But I’ll have you know that I spent the last two months in the forest, and two months before that arranging and signing a lengthy treaty with Thranduil. One that they’ll realize favors our mountain sometime this winter but won’t be able to cancel. Which was rather difficult, and you owe me several favors for completing.” Bilbo leaned closer, nipping at the shell of his ear, “So I ask you again, Thorin Oakenshield. Have you done anything in the last months but think about when we would next fuck?”

Thorin growled. He caught the ridiculous blue velvet coat above him by the lapel, intent on dragging his hobbit into his lap. That was exactly what he had done for the last two months, and he intended to waste no more time.  

Bilbo rarely said things like that, and it had rectified and more the flagging of his erection from the clumsy discovery. The sound of that word in Bilbo’s mouth had a habit of shutting off all thought in his mind.

But Bilbo resisted.

“No no no Thorin. You should finish what you started. That only seems fair. And we have time. You’ve begun a… task? Wouldn’t you like to see it to the end?”

What he wanted was to strip the hobbit bare and reacquaint himself with every inch of skin. Certain inches with a great deal more focus.

Small hands on his chest kept him in the chair though.

“Just go back to what you were doing. And tell me what you were thinking of.”

Of course the hobbit expected him to be capable of speech now. While he slid one hand down to tease at a nipple and Mahal have mercy, Bilbo knew what he liked as well as Thorin himself. He was a quick study.

Thorin had learned the rewards of doing what he was told in these cases though. So he took himself in hand once more and resumed stoking his forge. Not that it took long to grow just as hard as he had been. With Bilbo breathing against his neck, smelling like travelling leathers of some lingering bit of spice from the candies he made, it was easy to stay focused.

“I was thinking of the throne room.” Bilbo was confused for a moment, then he realized what was being referenced and flushed a delicious pink. “I was thinking about you on your knees before me.”

“You mean you were thinking about me licking a stripe up your cock before swallowing you down and what would have happened if one of the guards had thought to check in on us.”

Thorin’s breath stopped for a moment at the thought. It wasn’t fair that Bilbo could be so talented with his mouth in so many ways. Thorin certainly couldn’t compete with the things his hobbit would purr in his ear. That husky raw voice describing in detail the things he wanted was, on occasion, enough to make him spill before they even got out of their clothing.

And he was using his power to such glorious effect. How did he deserve Bilbo?

No, not the time to argue, Bilbo was purring again.

“You were thinking about about that thing I do with my tongue; the one that makes you swear in Khuzdul. And that I’d have you spill down my throat while your hands were buried in my hair holding me in place while I swallowed.” Bilbo exhaled against his neck and Thorin groaned, letting his hand pick up the pace.  He’d have thought his hobbit was unaffected based on his actions, but his voice was lower and a bit raspy as he continued, “Isn’t that right?”

“Faslak Bilbo, yes, yes. That’s what I was thinking.” It was fortunate that Bilbo had no interest in usurping power, right now Thorin would have signed his own abdication to make the Hobbit happy.

“You were thinking about when I run a finger down the crease of your ass and brush against you. I bet you were thinking about when I make you wait, very patiently, while I press ever so lightly, and fist myself with my other hand so that you don’t know if I’m going to give you any satisfaction or if I’ll just finish myself off. And then when you’re starting to grow hard again, how I slide one finger in so slowly you’re straining to have more.”

He could feel the satisfied smirk against his cheek when he began to move faster, drawing close to his end.

“And I bet you were thinking about how much you miss it when I work you open, tormenting you, grinding my own cock against your thigh, waiting until you’re hard before I finally bury myself in you and fuck you senseless.”

Words were falling out of Thorin’s mouth without his permission, and the only thing keeping him from finally coming was his own pride in not giving in until he had Bilbo just as desperate.

Oh, Bilbo was not playing fair today. His mouth kissed soft and open up his neck. Teeth gently dragged up the tendons of his neck and played at the corner of his jaw.   

“And what would you like to do to me after you’re done with this?”

His mind stumbled, trying to narrow down the list of things he wanted to do to Bilbo. One of the hot springs has been restored. There was a balcony over the marketplace that had just been declared structurally sound. There was the jar of sweet oil on the table in his bedroom he had not used. They had a whole box of accessories they hadn’t used yet. His crown was somewhere in the room. Bilbo had scarves somewhere.

It was fortunate his maker had made his people from stone, anything less would have long since crumbled under the attention Bilbo bestowed on him. His hand was stuttering, his hips bucking erratically. He was so very close to the first proper release he’d had in far too long.

But there was a question to be answered. The right answer could make the hobbit just as wrecked as he was now.

He opened his mouth, hoping it could come up with an answer to that incredibly open ended question since his brain obviously had nothing coherent to contribute.

And there was a knock at the door.

They both swore.

Muttering about getting rid of whoever it was, Bilbo went to the door. Thorin just stayed in the chair, hand stilled.

He would not come now. He was a Durin, he could withstand the worst timed interruption in all of dwarven history.

Bilbo would expel whoever had committed this crime. He would come back in a moment. They would resume. And after? After, he was going to scoop that hobbit up, take him to the bedroom, and repay him for this blissful cruelty. He’d pin him down and grind his hip against Bilbo’s flushed cock while he took his time with his tongue on the sensitive ears hiding beneath those silky curls. He’d kiss him until he was panting and then he’d expect him to talk about the treaty while he slid a finger--

“Thorin!”

Bilbo’s frustrated, snippy tone cut through his plotting efficiently. He was in his wardrobe, rapidly changing out of his riding gear. That… wasn’t a good sign.

Thorin’s hand was no longer holding quite such an impressive pillar of stone.

“Good, you’ve started listening now. Balin sent a guard up to find me with a message. They’ll be looking for you as well. You need to get dressed and cleaned up. The Elven contingent is on the road and will be at the gate in an hour. They must have decided not to stay in Dale.” He shucked off his trousers and was into a new pair before Thorin could properly appreciate the sight. “Which means you need to be ready to welcome them. And you need at least a small meal for them. And you’ll need to move the welcoming feast to tomorrow, not the day after.”

Thorin glared at the door that had brought this upon him and vowed to ruin Balin’s next free day. At least he would have Bilbo beside him when he met with the leaf munching…

Wait.

Bilbo was changing into work clothes not his formal court attire. He looked up sheepishly, “Oh, yes. Well, when it rains, you know? Bombur’s wife is apparently in labor. We wouldn’t be able to get him to the kitchen with a team of draft horses.”

“So you?”

“Yes. There really isn’t anyone else we can trust not to make them something insulting.” Bilbo scurried across the room, climbing into his lap to kiss him deeply. “Later, I promise.”

He rose, trailing fingers down Thorin’s bare thighs, smirking irreproachably. Then he stopped, and drew out the handkerchief Thorin had tried to hide. Embroidered in the corner was a scripted BB.

At the raised eyebrow of fierce hobbit judgement, Thorin had the decency to look abashed.

“I was wondering where this one had gone off to,” Bilbo sassed. He pecked a kiss on his cheek and made to leave, “I’ll see you at the feast, love.”

Thorin stared at the closed door, flustered, grumpy and still half hard. Duty won out and he began getting dressed. He was halfway back to his chambers before his mind caught up and he heard the endearment Bilbo had just used for the first time.

 

 


	2. Keep the Fire Burning

 

Elves were boring.

This was not new information to Thorin. Elves had been boring for longer than Dwarves had been stubborn.  Which is to say, forever.

However. Listening to Elves ramble about tariffs and earned percentages on transported goods when he knew that Bilbo was in the kitchen? That was a special level of hell for him.

Maybe it hadn’t been a good idea, but he had stopped by the kitchens on the way to the meeting. He had seen Bilbo running the chaos more surely than a general did his troops. Utterly confident, utterly in control, and flushed a pleasant pink from rushing about like nothing mattered more than that the pies be pulled from the oven at precisely the right time.

His hobbit, no, _Bilbo_ , it wouldn’t do to call him his yet, they had never even discussed such a thing and being presumptuous would be inappropriate…. Mostly because Bilbo had given every indication of disinterest in a formalized attachment. Since asking might have endangered the frequency of the naked grappling, Thorin had never pressed the issue.

But, oh his hobbit.

It wasn’t just that seeing him running around giving orders conjured up similar memories of less innocent activities. It wasn’t just that Bilbo had shed his waistcoat and unbuttoned the top of his shirt in the heat of the kitchen. It wasn’t even that Bilbo had spotted him in the doorway and cleaned the spoon of whatever had coated it with his eyes locked to Thorin’s and the public chaos of the kitchen whirling around him.

Though, that last part had certainly stayed in his mind.

It was that it was Bilbo, and he was back. And had been back for several hours now, and neither of them had been able to drag the other into a dark corner and convert them into a quivering mess through liberal application of tongue and teeth and hands.

With effort, Thorin forced his mind away from the hobbit and back to the very boring elf at the table with him. Oh Mahal, he was talking about trees. He couldn’t quite hide the scowl on his face. The elf was paying even less attention than the dwarf though, and failed to notice.

It was insufferable.

He couldn’t just walk away in the middle of the conversation with an insult. That would endanger the treaty. That might mean that Bilbo would have to go all the way back to Eryn Galen and renegotiate, and that would mean not seeing him until spring. And that? That was totally unacceptable.

So no, Thorin couldn’t leave, but he could allow his mind to wander back to happier places.

And it merrily did as soon as his staunch control wavered.

He had asked the servants that Balin insisted were necessary to thoroughly clean his chambers three days ago. He had been given a look of exasperated confusion, and he had realized that they were always kept clean. He just never noticed them at all. His chambers -- and the unnecessarily large bed within them -- were one of the few nearly soundproof locations in the mountain. The currently unused queen’s were entirely soundproof, but asking for them to be cleaned would have raised too many questions that he would prefer not to entangle himself in.

He had other things to entangle himself in. One thing. Bilbo. Bilbo needed entangling. Badly.

Soundproof was important.

It had been such a game between them, slowly and secretly defiling the entirety of Erebor, that they were inadvertently trained to keep silent in their encounters. Thorin’s very best efforts to break Bilbo’s control had elicited a slight squeak against the closed door between themselves and the communal chamber where the company was dining the night before he left with the elves. But no more than that.

Silence had been a goal before.

An achievement.

He had a new goal now.

A loud goal.

He had a bed that had never been seen by any but himself and his servants. That was going to change. He had never heard Bilbo lose himself in pleasure and truly cry out at his completion. Occasional sounds, yes. Moans, naturally. Gaspy breaths that sounded like his name pleading for release and always more more more.

If he had his way, he was going to take Bilbo apart and hear exactly what he he sounded like when unstrung from his sensibility. He would strip him bare and hold him in place on that enormous bed and work him open with tongue and fingers and toys until he was utterly wrecked. Until he couldn’t tell up from down or talk in more than pleading whimpers for Thorin to take him and take him hard.

That is, if Bilbo didn’t do the same to him first.  There had been something possessive, something _dwarven_ , in Bilbo’s eyes earlier.

Already well acquainted with the hobbit’s capacity and skill, Thorin would not lie to himself and pretend that he would be able to resist if Bilbo exerted that control.

“So you agree then?”

Thorin snapped back to the moment.

The elf was waiting for an answer.

About…

…. Something.

“Yes, of course.” He trusted that nothing serious was being discussed at this informal affair.

“Excellent, I am sure King Thranduil will be pleased to hear it.”

Damned traitorous elves.

With no idea what he had just agreed to, Thorin forced himself to focus on the elves again.

They were still talking about trees.

Dammit.

 

* * *

 

Luck was not with him.

It had now been a full day since Bilbo had returned to Erebor, and they’d spent less than ten minutes alone. Mahal have mercy, he had barely spent an hour anywhere near the delectable hobbit. And that was distracting him from responding to the slight digs and insults Thranduil’s representative had been throwing at him.

The few promising kisses upon his immediate arrival had only served to heighten the need currently burning through Thorin’s gut. Thorin had not even found a way to steal him away to so much as embrace the confounded creature.

He had known that inviting the Elves to the memorial was a terrible idea.

But Bilbo had insisted.

It would be alright.

He had survived a full two months without him. He could make it through one more feast. He was the King Under the Mountain and hero of several nearly fatal battles that Ori was writing up to be legendary. He’d be known for generations, hopefully not as the king that ravished his lover in the middle of a banquet table.

It was only a few more hours.

He could do this.

Cobbling together a facade of a king rather than a ravenous lech, he raised his head from the table to reply to the blonde elven envoy. It may have been the one that stole Orcrist. Not that he could truly tell. One elf looked much the same as any other.

Unless this one was a female. Their dress things made it hard to tell.

“I hope the feast will properly introduce you to the virtues of Dwarven cuisine. It is a finer fare than many expect, though many struggle with what we consider mild spicing. If you have need of it, a pitcher of ale can be brought to you. Or if you need, we could fetch a flagon of cream from the kitchens?”

The elf pinched his lips together. “That will hardly be necessary. You have the thanks of our people for the _generous_ invitation to your halls for the memorial. It is only unfortunate that we will not be able to stay longer than the festivities.”

Thorin hummed non-committaly. He’d been dressed down earlier about keeping his tongue behind his teeth. Balin and Bilbo would have his head if he spoiled relations on the same day he had ratified the treaty. But one more little jibe couldn’t hurt.

It would have been a great one, but it died stillborn on his tongue when he caught sight of Bilbo.

Bathed, flushed, laughing Bilbo.

Who was talking to some elf and wearing an outfit that was too flattering to be considered fair. He was barefoot of course, nothing would ever convince a hobbit to wear shoes, but otherwise was dressed to match any dwarf in attendance.

The long tunic was belted in place and made his figure more obvious. Whoever had tailored the thing was a master craftsman. He would find out who was responsible and have every scrap of clothing replaced with things that hugged his form like that. There was detailed embroidery bordering every seam and hem. He had a few gems and beads scattered in his hair that glittered in the torchlight. It was a distraction. Well, it would have been a distraction for Bilbo to have walked in at all.

But, just to throw him the little bit further into incomprehensibility, Bilbo was dressed in blue.

A particular shade of blue, that, while there was no ordinance stating it was disallowed, was definitely Durin blue and Bilbo was wearing it in formal attire and had gemstones in his hair and earlier he had called him love and… No.

Thorin wasn’t going to follow that line of thought.

So instead he gave his mind a push in another direction.

That was the same blue as the blanketing on his bed.

Oh.

No. No no.

That really wasn’t any better.

Luckily, Bilbo’s arrival meant that dinner was announced and Thorin wasn’t forced to fumble for words to explain his abrupt slack-jawed silence.

Bilbo had certainly been in command of the kitchen. Dwarves knew how to cook, anyone who claimed otherwise was likely just jealous, or an elf. But Bilbo had been learning dwarven practices, learning what recipes and spices they liked best, learning how much greenery they were willing to tolerate before they would demand a roast. Then the hobbit would do it himself, and it would come out somehow even better.

Infatuation may have been a partial motivator for Thorin’s adoration of Bilbo’s skills. The others though, had no such excuse, and were ogling the approaching trays with as much a salivatory predation as the King Under the Mountain. A title which gave him the added benefit of being served first.

First were savory tarts; bite sized morsels of flaky fish with thyme and onion baked into buttery pastry. His first instinct was to empty the platter onto his plate, just to spite the elf who was eying them eagerly. But as he could tell this was one of the dishes meant to placate their guests, he only took four.

Then came bowls of brothy soup and crusty bread to dip into it.

Then what could only be called a salad.

He looked up, searching for Bilbo’s eye further down the table to deliver a suitably intimidating glare for the audacity he had shown in having a salad served at a dwarven feast.

Fingers trailed unseen over his shoulders as someone crossed behind him.

“Something not to your liking, sir?”

If Bilbo hadn’t pulled back, Thorin might have accidentally concussed him whipping about to see him. The hobbit had snuck behind and leaned in to speak in his ear while setting down a trencher of thick dressing.  He was smirking. That is, his face wasn’t, he seemed entirely proper for a feast of this importance, but all the same, he _was_ smirking. It was in his eyes as they flashed, and in the faintest curve of his lip. It was certainly nothing that Thorin could call attention to.

But he could see it.

“No? Then I’d best get back to help the others with the main course.”

He didn’t move. Stayed right there, close enough that Thorin could feel the warmth of his skin radiating from beneath silk tunic and shirt.

“Why are you serving?” Thorin managed to ask. He didn’t care. Not in the least. But it was the first question he managed to get out of his useless mouth that wasn’t obscene.

“No reason not to.” He quipped. “And it allows me to come up here like this, and remind you not to eat too much.”

Thorin frowned. Never, not once in the year and more he had known the hobbit, not once in a lifetime of distant knowledge of hobbits, had he ever heard one discourage an extra helping at a meal. But the heat in Bilbo’s eyes clued him into the intent of the whispered caution.

The realization must have been visible in his features, because Bilbo smirked quickly before blanking his expression once more.

“There you go. Yes, I do have plans for you. I’d hate for you to fall asleep too early. I need to apologize for last night first of all. Then... well,” he leaned closer, ostensibly refilling the king’s goblet with ale, “you’re not the only one who has spent two months thinking about when we would next fuck, and I’m aching for it.”

Letting his nails scratch gently over Thorin’s neck, Bilbo straightened and continued down the table to speak with another member of the delegation.

Thorin absolutely did not shiver as he watched him walk away.

He also listened quite intently to what Balin was saying during the course of various vegetables cooked in cream or roasted to a caramelized crust. The only reason he did not answer immediately was because his throat had been dry and the food delicious. It had nothing to do with the return of their burglar. Or what they were most definitely going to do that night. And in the morning.

And most of the next day if he could cancel that blasted meeting.

But Bilbo’s words echoed in his mind as the platters of roast were brought before him. They were perfect. The smell alone. Mahal, no wonder Bilbo had warned him. His first instinct had been to have the entire slab of boar left at his table.

It had been rubbed over with an onion and red wine marinade, studded with whole cloves and garlic, covered in black pepper and bay, and slow roasted until the meat seemed eager to fall off the bone.

He restrained himself. Barely. But Bilbo knew his audience. Knew that there were dwarves to be fed. He had not prepared only one kind of meat.

There were pillows of fried dough with spicy sausage and nuts stuffed inside. There were slices of a beef flank that had been butchered thin, covered with a layer of greens and cheese, rolled, then wrapped in smoked bacon. There were whole chickens that had been cooked in a tart ginger pepper glaze.

All of it was wonderful. None of it was going to offend the Elves, and Thorin was almost upset about that part. Until he saw a last dish brought into the chamber. If he hadn’t caught sight of Bilbo’s mischievous eyes, he would have thought it had been unwitting.

That was silly. Bilbo was never unwitting of what he did.

He’d made it just to irritate the Elves.

And amuse Thorin.

Elves hated snake.

Bilbo had made the kitchen take the time to debone the meat without cutting it, serving it in a coil, with a dish of a bright red sauce in the center.

It took a lifetime of experience restraining himself not to snicker at the way the elves recoiled. But, as Bilbo was explaining to the part of the delegation nearest to him, “Snake is a dwarven delicacy Aerlas, you really _must_ try some.”

Then the hobbit’s eyes flickered up, and Thorin knew at once just which sauce had been made to accompany it.

There were two that were common when serving snake. One was an almost sweet, very tangy thing that completely masked the taste of the meat itself. The other.

Well.

Thorin could see that there were servers with flagons of what must surely be cream positioned around the room. He nodded to Bilbo in thanks, nodded to the poncy blonde elf next to him and gestured for them to taste it.

Bilbo was a very bad hobbit.

And Thorin adored him for it.

The sauce was deceptive, mild at first taste. Garlic and a hearty support for the flavor of the snake. But then the spice of it bloomed in the mouth and the unstoppable heat of the tiny peppers it was made with overtook everything.

Thorin liked that sauce. Always had.

As he watched the elves struggle not to admit that they needed relief, he decided that he loved it. The blonde next to him succumbed first, calling Bilbo’s name. The hobbit, kinder than the sniggering dwarves, jumped up and carried over a flagon with a joyful laugh.

“I did warn you, mellon. Dwarves do know a thing or two about peppers.”

Bilbo gestured behind him, and dwarves brought cream out to all of the elves, whether they had asked for it or not. More than a few of the dwarves accepted cups as well.

It was rather potent.

Not that Thorin needed the cup Bilbo handed him. It was just polite to accept it.

There were other dishes after that. Thorin didn’t pay any attention to them. He was far too preoccupied with watching Bilbo as he teased the elves, never quite crossing the line into insult, and prodding at them until their own smiles turned genuine. If his attention was more attuned to the curve of his backside beneath blue silk, no one needed to know.

In fact, dessert was reached without him even noticing.

Towers of little cookies were stacked on tiered stands in collections of flavors and shapes, all of it far daintier than anything a dwarf would have made. They were placed on small tables in the center of the hall, out of reach of the guests. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dwalin frowning at them, no doubt judging their diminutive size. Then came dish after dish of sauce. First something that Bilbo, orchestrating the showy arrival, announced as chocolate, then spiced chocolate, then a vanilla and cinnamon mix, then something about lemons and lavender, then one involving mint.

Most of the crowd was confused until Bilbo plucked up a long cookie, dunked it into one of the dishes and took a bite. From there it was nearly chaos as everyone leapt up. They all had to try every kind of sauce. Since the various types were placed around the room, they milled about and relaxed the formality of the room.

Bilbo had forced them all to mingle.

It worked far better than Thorin would have guessed had he known of it in advance.

He watched from his seat at the high table and admired the skill of the hobbit to throw a party. He held back from joining the throng, content, and not _at all_ inconvenienced by the cut of his trousers. The hobbit chatted and laughed, and flagged down a server when he saw Thorin seated still. With a much smaller dish of pale yellow cookies and a silver boat of sauce, Bilbo stepped up onto the dais and set them down.

“That one’s just for you, love.”

Thorin frowned in puzzlement for a moment, hiding the impulse to grab him and kiss that word into the hobbit’s mouth, then swept a quick taste of the glaze into his mouth.

Oh. That was why.

The damned cardamom clove glaze.

Never believe anyone claiming that hobbits are not cruel.

That particular set of flavors would always and forever return Thorin to his memories of that first morning in the kitchen. No wonder Bilbo hadn’t made that variety for the throng.

It was difficult to scowl though, since he had just drowned one of the cookies in sauce and crammed it into his mouth.

Not that he didn’t try.

It’s just that it wasn’t particularly successful.  

Especially when he almost moaned over the memory and the taste.

“Is something the matter, Thorin?” Bilbo’s voice was soft and deep; it wouldn’t be heard by anyone else. Not that anyone was watching them. The crowd was gleefully testing every combination of dessert. “Is it not to your liking? I should check.” He picked up a cookie, dipped it in, and then licked the sauce off, tongue lavishing the dessert with more attention than a baked good deserved. The way he was standing kept anyone else in the room from seeing the lascivious look in his eyes as he did so.

Trousers were now a substantial problem. Actually. The contents were the substantial problem, thank you very much.

The shifting he resorted to was noticed, and Bilbo leaned in a bit closer over the table to speak again.

“You haven’t stopped watching me since I arrived with the first course. Terribly rude of you. Though, I must admit: I have been somewhat preoccupied myself. If the delegation hadn’t arrived early, do you know what I was going to do to you?”

Thorin leaned closer, but couldn’t quite manage to speak.

“I was going to wait until you were oh-so-close, and then fall to my knees before you and swallow you down. I haven’t had you in my mouth -- in my _throat_ \-- for _far too long_ , Thorin, and I’d like to correct that as soon as possible. I’m quite sure I’d fit under the table, but I doubt you could keep quiet. After that, while you were still drowsy and boneless, I was going to stay between your thighs and take my sweet time opening you up, so that by the time I was ready to have you, you’d be hard again, and begging me for it.”

Breathing was important.

As was answering.

Neither really went well. He garbled an answer.

In the middle of a banquet hall, surrounded by nobles and an elven delegation, looking every bit the proper diplomat, Bilbo just grinned wider at Thorin’s obvious incapacity to think straight.

But Mahal was clearly displeased with his son today, and a member of the cook staff came up to gain Bilbo’s attention. The hobbit turned, instantly looking innocent as ever, and listened, then excused himself to follow.

Fortunately, Thorin kept watching as he left, and saw the dwarf stay behind as Bilbo continued down the hall.

Just before he passed out of sight, the hobbit glanced over his shoulder, back to the king.

That was as good as an invitation.

The feast had fallen into disorganized chatter and conviviality. They wouldn’t be missed.

He caught a server by the arm and gave quick instructions regarding the rest of the dessert at his seat, then slipped from the feasting hall.

As he emerged from the kitchen, Bilbo had more of a bounce in his step than was fair. Thorin was still trying to shift himself into a comfortable position beneath his tunic as he leaned against the column near the stairs to the kitchens. The hobbit was contentedly humming and not paying attention to what was around him.

Which made it rather easy for Thorin to grab him and finally do what he had been longing for since Bilbo left. He pulled him into the shadowed niche.

Surprised by the sudden change he may have been, but Bilbo knew who it was. He opened his mouth and moaned against Thorin’s lips as the dwarf kissed him. His mouth tasted of lemons and spice with just a shadow of the vanilla he had used to demonstrate the dessert.

At this rate, Thorin would never be able to eat sweets again without thinking of him. That was probably Bilbo’s goal, thinking about it.

Brazen hobbit.

Pressing him into the wall, he could not help but grind his hips forward. Nimble hands tucked inside his regal cloak and found their way to his arse, holding him impossibly closer.

Thorin may have bitten him for that.

A little bit.

The kissing was a battle as much as it was an embrace. Teeth crashing and tongues warring for dominance. Thorin’s hands were ruining the primly combed curls. He heard the click of a gem falling to the floor and he knew he was spoiling the the neatness. He just didn’t care.

When the need for air became critical, he dragged teeth over the shell of Bilbo’s ear, relishing how sensitive it was. The reward was the way the hobbit rocked his hips upwards, and flung his arms around Thorin’s shoulders, pulling himself higher. But no sound.

So Thorin persisted, sucking a mark into the skin of his neck, just below his ear where it would be hidden by curls. Ending it with a sharp nip over the tender bruise, he pulled back to look at his hobbit. Really look.

Not wise, since all that did was turn the need to have him laid out beneath him from a manageable thing, to a irrepressible blaze. Since Bilbo’s hands were still clutching at his furs and his mouth was still open, letting our heavy breaths that he could not get under control, the hobbit was clearly in much the same state. Hair frizzier than it had been a moment before, lips wet and bright, a small flush on his cheeks, and a darkening bruise on his neck, Bilbo was looking rather wrecked.

But his eyes. Oh sweet merciful maker be kind, those eyes. And that look.

The absolute possessive mischief hidden in those eyes. There was nothing for it. Neither was going to make it back to the feast. The elves would just have to accept the insult of his early departure.

He wasn’t going to be able to maintain composure otherwise.

“I need you.” He managed to say.

“Not the only one.” Bilbo groaned as Thorin shifted his leg between the hobbit’s to slide slowly down. “Ohhh, Thorin. There is a feast, and elves, and -- ah -- the delegation -- _mmmmm_ \-- the treaty --”

That wouldn’t do.

The king of Erebor silenced him with another kiss, tracing the shape of that cheeky mouth with his tongue, nibbling at lips and, well, plundering, until it was clear that there was no way he was returning to the welcome feast.

“Don’t care.”

“But the treaty--”

“Don’t care.”

“After all the work that I did to get the damned thing arranged I hardly think that --” Bilbo’s temper shone through as he grew irritated, and his tone grew snippy.

“I. Dont. Care.” Thorin kissed him briefly, then grinned as he continued in a softer, but no less insistent voice, “If you would rather return to the hall, that is your choice, but I plan to turn you into a panting, begging mess of a hobbit, in the very near future, regardless of where we are. So it is left to you on whether you would prefer we be in private.”

Bilbo’s eyes were always a good indicator of his thoughts. In this case, they glinted with that same predatory delight that sent heat straight to Thorin’s cock. “We’ll see who does the begging, Thorin.”

He slipped away, using some kind of hobbity magic to escape the dwarf’s hold, and glanced up and down the hallway. “I must go apologize for my departure. No one will think anything of it if you leave early, they know you don’t want to be there, but I have to go explain that I have been cooking all day, and am quite tired. I’ll not let us ruin that treaty just because we want to be naked and buried in each other.”

Another step back kept him from Thorin’s reaching hands.

“Ah-ah. Patience. Where are we meeting?”

“My chambers.”

The King almost blushed. Almost.

Bilbo couldn’t hide the stunned flash. They had done a great many things in a great many places. They had defiled the better part of the Mountain. However, Bilbo’s chambers had been their consistent refuge when they determined that something soft was needed. Thorin’s had never even been discussed after they had checked the box next to it.

He wasn’t going to explain why just now though.

Not with Bilbo looking like that.

So Thorin watched the hobbit, _his_ hobbit nod, and make his way back toward the noisy hall. The little hitch in his step was a nice reward, the way he had to stop and smooth down his hair another.

But it was the promising wink over Bilbo’s shoulder from the doorway that sent Thorin rapidly towards his chambers. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not Abandoned! Life just got in the way! Real Life bad. Writing Smut good. Therefore, this continues.   
> Meph is, as ever, just the bestest.
> 
> But have some more, and soon, the rest.   
> Also: Would you rather have one more very long chapter or should I split it into two?


	3. Polishing Swords

 

The only path between the great hall where the feast was held and the King’s chambers was neither short nor direct. This was for the safety of the royal line in case of an attack. It was a prudent, sensible element of the design of Erebor.

It was not, however, something that Thorin had ever had cause to consider or even, truly to think of as being a great distance.

Tonight, it was.

Somehow, and Mahal would be the only one to know how he managed it, but somehow, Thorin managed to reach his chambers without breaking into a run in anticipation, or hiding in a side corridor to capture Bilbo that much sooner. He didn’t turn around and drag the hobbit out of the feast either. Overall, he was quite pleased with his restraint.

He reached the large doors, stepped inside, left them unlocked, and clutched the back of a chair as he exhaled.

Bilbo knew what was happening. Knew where his chambers were. It wasn’t as if anyone was going to be able to prevent the hobbit from departing the festivities now that Thorin had made his intention clear. Anyone that did was likely to find themselves beaten in the side of the head with a fruit platter. Bilbo’s proper Hobbiton manners extended only so far. Once broken… well… It would be best if the population of Erebor was not subjected to the depths of insult and obscenity that the hobbit was capable of leveling at an opponent when vexed.

So all Thorin needed to do was wait. Patiently. And not touch himself.

He had his pride, after all.

But there was the plush back of a chair in front of him and he knew full well that the friction of his trousers against the rough upholstery was rather divine. Something he knew from an encounter with Bilbo in a store room, not because he had rutted against his furniture at any point.

He did have some standards.

Even at the nadir of Bilbo’s absence he hadn’t resorted to anything of the kind. He had used his hand to great effect instead.

But it was rather tempting.

Fortunately for the king’s pride and the chair’s innocence, before he could succumb to temptation, he heard the door click shut. The opening had been silent, but that soft click of a lock turning seemed monstrously loud in the air, no doubt because of the implications that it carried.

Waiting was over.

There was Bilbo.

Still dressed, damn him, in Durin blue. The blasted hobbit must have known the effect it would have. Nothing Bilbo did was ever just an accident.

Despite feeling like he was about to rip apart at the seams, despite the absence of air that suddenly plagued the room, despite feeling his blood near to boiling with the need to ravish, or be ravished -- he wasn’t feeling discriminating at the moment -- he was frozen in place. Because of that damned impish smirk on that damned beardless face. The way Bilbo canted his hips to the side just slightly and cocked his head the other way, appraising and contemplative. The way this small creature could absolutely own a room with his presence.

The way he could be so composed in the face of visibly substantial arousal.

It was a trifle distracting for Thorin.

Then there was the flashing memory of whispered words and various desserts. It was an unfortunate combination since, still unable to walk, he groaned in the back of his throat.

Bilbo’s smirk transformed into a broad smile at the sound.

“I’ve missed you as well. Now then, I do believe I quite rudely interrupted you yesterday with my arrival ahead of schedule. Perhaps I ought to make amends?” The smile melted into something nearly rapacious. Something that made Thorin’s toes curl in his boots.

Bilbo crossed to him, leaving the door he had leaned against, and began immediately to undo clasps and snaps and toggles and laces. Thorin’s belated effort to grab hold of the hobbit, caused him to dodge away by a step and glare a silent order to obey.

For whatever reason, Bilbo wanted him to stay still, and keep his hands to himself.

Thorin could oblige him.

For now.

He did have a bit of self control left to expend.

The heavy furred cloak was draped over a chair with a reverence he did not expect. But then Bilbo sank to his knees and removed first one boot than the other. He let fingers trail up the outside of Thorin’s legs as he rose, bypassing the strained laces of Thorin’s trousers and finding his overtunic. As each button was undone, Thorin mentally cursed the custom of layers that Dwarves followed. Hobbits seemed quite content to live in four articles of clothing, with a coat serving as a fifth when the weather turned.

He tensed his fists further, struggling not to disobey, and waited while Bilbo pressed close and slid the first tunic off. Before the sound of it rumpling on the floor had even registered, Bilbo was lowering back down again, undoing the next row of toggles with a patience and steadiness that would have been discouraging if not for the way his breath hitched and the way he couldn’t resist straddling and sliding along the solid planes of Thorin’s thigh while he finished the last of them.

Thorin focused on breathing.

Mostly because he was concerned he would forget to otherwise, and fainting was unlikely to speed them along. There would also be mocking.

Couldn’t let that happen.

Rising again, Bilbo slid hands beneath the loose silken tunic and and drew it high enough to bare Thorin’s chest.

Softened a bit by nearly a year of living in Erebor, his muscles were not quite so defined as they once were. His stomach, which had for near a century been flat and firm, now had a curve of softness overlaying it. No doubt thanks to the excessive and delicious meals that Bilbo plied them with whenever possible.

Keeping the larder filled to overflowing through liberal application of coin to merchant palms also had an impact. Thorin might have felt shy about the change left to his own devices, but he had been repeatedly told that the change was welcome.  

Based on the way Bilbo’s face flushed as he explored newly exposed skin, his admiration of the change was not exaggerated.

Following the planes of muscles and teasing at the curve of his belly, Bilbo stripped him of the fabric, and rose on his toes, whispering “gorgeous, beautiful, perfect” against Thorin’s throat. Then his hands slipped lower, and the laces of his trousers were undone, the tie of his underclothes slipped free, and Bilbo let them fall of their own accord to the floor.

He pressed closer, grinding his leg against Thorin’s all too eager member. Sweet holy forges. Friction.

Friction was wonderful. Pressure was wonderful. Bilbo was wonderful.

He had been told to obey and stay still, and he had endeavoured to do so to the best of his ability. It was just a matter of restraint.

There was however, a limit to his control.

It was somewhere just behind him.

Thorin caught Bilbo, hands tangling in curls and held him in place with their lips just barely grazing against each other. The hobbit went almost limp as a keening whimper slipped from his mouth. One that Thorin was only too happy to swallow down as he crushed their mouths together and licked his way inside.

They separated, and Bilbo’s eyes fluttered back open as he calmed his breathing. Dark, intense and pinning him in place, the smaller man’s eyes flicked up, and told him everything he needed to know of what would be happening that night.

He didn’t object.

It was a gorgeous plan, and he wanted everything Bilbo had just promised. He wanted a great deal more as a matter of fact, but he would let him think he was winning for now.

So when Bilbo snuck out of his grasp again to retrieve the heavy, formal cloak and slipped it back over his shoulders, Thorin allowed it.

When Bilbo set a hand over his chest and pressed him back until he sank into a chair, he allowed it.

When Bilbo leaned over and kissed him, ending with a barely audible, “my king” that made Thorin’s hips jerk up, Thorin very much allowed it.

Then the hobbit pulled back, observing the dwarf, who was wearing nothing but his cloak and crown, and smirked again. There was a moment’s hesitation, then the crown was plucked off, and set imperiously upon his own brow, where it was far too large, and altogether charming to look at. Thorin tilted his head, about to comment, and stopped only when fingers pressed against his mouth.

Bilbo shook his head, and Thorin kept quiet, choosing instead to flick his tongue out, and press along the seam between two of them. He caught both and drew them into his mouth, tracing patterns with his tongue and sucking hard on them.

Bilbo’s mouth dropped before he regained his control, and removed his fingers.

“An excellent idea.”

Then he was on his knees, head bowed, crown glinting over curls, and kissing softly up the inside of Thorin’s thigh. He reached Thorin’s cock, full and twitching against his stomach and mouthed too gently, too softly up the length. Thorin groaned, and could not stop his hands from finding Bilbo’s hair and ear.

One firm swipe of his tongue, playing along the edge of foreskin and the weeping slit at the head was all Thorin got before Bilbo began kissing his way up the other leg.

It was torturously slow. An agony of pleasure.

And Thorin knew better than to try and speed it up.

He resisted the instinct to thrust as Bilbo’s hand closed around him at the base, pulling him upright.

He could not help himself when Bilbo brought his mouth to brush against it and called for his attention, “Thorin. Look at me.”

Bright curls. Mischievous eyes. A stolen crown. Dressed in Durin blue.

Holding Thorin’s throbbing cock against his lips while he wet them with his sharp tongue. It was a fast glance of pressure, but it was more than enough to send a tremor rolling up from his toes.

Bilbo was a menace.

Of course he thrust up into the hobbit’s hand.

He was just proud it was only the once before he regained control.

By his grin, Bilbo was pleased at the reaction, and licked a wide line up from base to tip, as if tasting Thorin, relearning a flavor. His jaw hung loose while his tongue worked. There was bright glow in his cheeks. His eyes fluttered as he groaned, almost inaudibly. It was the same pleasured face as when he had cooked something delectable. It lasted long enough for Thorin to note the similarity before all rational thought vanished in the hot, wet, pressure of Bilbo’s mouth.  

It was just optimism that had Thorin thinking he’d be able to hold out long. But optimism had served him well in his life. If he bothered to exercise it at all.

He had no intention of spilling so soon.

Pride.

So Bilbo sank low, tongue working a sumptuous pressure against the underside of his cock while his thumb led the way.

For his part, Thorin found his grip tightening around curls, unconsciously drawing Bilbo lower. He would have felt guilt for abusing him so if not for the hum of pleasure that trilled through the mouth around him and made him shudder. Control was becoming a fading fantasy.

His hobbit glided back up, back down, and moved at such a pace as to deny Thorin any kind of rhythm. Bilbo moaned as Thorin began to play with his ears, tender stroking touches that, as they continued, caused the hobbit to twitch a bit where he knelt.

Memory had nothing on the sight before him as Bilbo came up for air, mouth red and glistening, eyes dark, and his breathing heavy.

“You’re holding back on me.” He quipped, circling his thumb just below the head, keeping his mouth close enough that Thorin could not stop watching. “Have you forgotten in these last two months that I am not a fainting damsel?”

“What-- what do you want then?” Thorin managed, around the dryness that had overtaken his mouth.

“You.”

Thorin raised a sardonic eyebrow at that.

“If you have not noticed where you are at present Bilbo, I think you already have me.”

“True.” He kissed the tip, then lifted his eyes to meet Thorin’s as he swallowed his way down, burying his nose in dark curls; an act that elicited a high, whimpering stream of khuzdul. Thorin’s rambling escalated as Bilbo came up, sucking hard. “But as I told you earlier, I’m quite sure that you’ve spent these last months thinking about me, and I’d like you to show just what you were thinking about.” He paused, and exhaled hotly against Thorin’s cock, which, he was struggling to keep control over. “Also, I have rather missed you as well. So. If it isn’t too much trouble, I’d very much like for you to fuck my mouth.”

Cheeky hobbit.

Cheeky, insufferable, seductive, incredible hobbit.

And what could Thorin do except comply?

Hair wrapped about his fingers and endeavouring to stay mindful of Bilbo’s comfort, Thorin obeyed, as he always did, rocking up and into his mouth as the Hobbit encouraged him deeper and deeper.

It was bliss, and while there were most decidedly words falling out of Thorin’s mouth, he hadn’t a clue what they were.

It was possible he was begging.

Hardly his fault.

Bilbo was doing that _thing_ that he did with his tongue. There was no resisting that twisting curl of pressure. Thorin pumped his hips up harder, savoring the ecstatic expression on Bilbo’s face as he was taken, losing himself in the tightness building in his gut.

Then Bilbo pulled up and off entirely, countering the thrusts of Thorin’s hips with the movement of his hand, bringing Thorin to the edge, but never over, until the king’s temper snapped.

Hearing the cursing in at least two languages -- it may have been three, Thorin wasn’t coherent enough to know what he was saying -- Bilbo took the cue, and sealed his mouth around the the head, sucking while thrusting at the tip with his tongue. Thorin came hard enough to worry his vision would never actually return.

Not that being rendered blind by a peerless blow job was anything to be ashamed of, but his vision did come back to him after a deep breath or two.

The haze in his mind cleared slower than he would have liked, and he looked down to see Bilbo calmly, primly even licking his lips and cleaning what had spilled onto his fingers with patient passes of his tongue, and indecent caresses with his mouth. Had Thorin had the capacity to come again, right at that moment, he surely would have.

Instead, he could only watch as Bilbo finished what he was doing and prowled up to kiss him. Bitter, and an undertone of the dessert that Bilbo had tormented him with in the Feast. Teeth caught at his lip, worrying at it as the hobbit pulled back. Then they fell back together, kissing like they were starving for it. Thorin at the very least was. Had been for months, and there was no way that he was done for the night. He just needed a pause.

At some point Thorin had removed his hands from Bilbo’s hair, and once they recalled how to move of their own power, he hoisted him higher, settling him into his lap, with legs tucked outside of Thorins.

Bilbo sat up and adjusted the crown on his head where it had gone askew.

That the hobbit could be so damnably composed when Thorin could feel just how interested he was, both aggravated and impressed him; he was like that. Which meant it was Thorin’s favorite game to take apart that self control.

“It looks better on you.”

“It does, doesn’t it? I certainly think so.” He adjusted it again, and in his distraction, didn’t notice Thorin shift an arm to palm roughly against the prominent bulge in his trousers. With a garbled squeak Bilbo pitched forward into Thorin’s chest, tucking his head into the crook of his neck. Thorin rubbed slow and firm, almost in a circle, almost in a pattern, playing the same game of denial that the hobbit had used on him.

A particularly long stretch of glancing, nearly absent touches, followed by the pressure Bilbo was trying to grind down and find, caused the hobbit to bite.

“ _Aaaaah_. Thorin. Clothing.” Thorin relented a moment, “I am still dressed Thorin.” Bilbo said in a tone that was anything but a request.

Easily remedied.

The comfort of life in the kingdom may have softened his body somewhat, but had done nothing to his strength. He lifted Bilbo as he stood, carrying him into the next room and dropping him onto the bed. Laughing, Bilbo flailed to keep the crown in place, seemingly prepared to offer all manner of sarcasm for the offense of nearly displacing it. Instead Thorin descended upon him, letting the huge furred cloak enclose them both as he returned the favor and bit marks into the hobbit’s neck.

One hand and knee bracing him up, the others set to more important tasks. His knee ground against Bilbo’s arousal, inducing little thrusts. His hand set about finding the skin beneath the excellent, attractive, implicative, but now very much in the way, formal attire.

It did not take long.

Whether that was because some of his dexterity was returning to him having partially slaked his need, or if he was simply tearing off the buttons he wasn’t entirely clear.

Nor did it matter. He could always have them replaced or repaired. He was the king after all.

What mattered was baring Bilbo to the glow of the firelight, and repaying him in full.

Bilbo seemed inclined to agree.

That is, based on the way he was whimpering and clutching at Thorin’s shoulders hard enough that his nails were digging little furrows.

Thorin considered stalling, teasing, waiting and tormenting Bilbo as the hobbit had done throughout the last day, but in the end, it was not mercy that prevented it. Thorin simply could not resist the need to dive down and devour.

Bilbo shuddered as teeth nipped at his neck and dragged over his nipples. It took hardly any of Thorin’s strength to hold him down when he tried to squirm, and he soon found himself settling between thighs, looking up over the expanse of Bilbo’s torso, lit more golden than usual in the firelight of his bedchamber. He took just long enough to admire the exquisite clash of golden skin against the blue of the silky blankets, then turned his attention to more important matters.

Having the hobbit’s straining cock in his mouth as soon as possible, namely.

Thorin did not tease or even break stride, simply waited for Bilbo to look. He glossed his lips on the precome leaking from the tip and let it slide through the tight circle of his mouth. He groaned at the familiar weight on his tongue, and heard a moan echo from above him.

He drew back, sank down, came up, and flickered his tongue over the sweet point just by the head. His other hand, no longer holding him aloft, began to trace patterns over Bilbo’s thigh, drawing closer, but never quite touching anything Bilbo wanted.

There did have to be some retaliation for the teasing.

A little.

Bilbo whimpered when Thorin’s hand just brushed, ever so softly over the clenching ring of muscles. He sounded nearly desperate.

But only nearly.

Thorin slid down, and when the cock in his mouth brushed against his throat, he took a deep breath and tried to swallow him entirely.

Hobbit. Magic.

That was the only possible explanation for how Bilbo was able to achieve such a feat when Thorin was not. It was not as if Bilbo were poorly endowed by his maker, there was plenty to swallow, but still. Thorin should have been able to achieve better. But his throat burned around the fullness, his body panicked, and while he avoided the impulse to choke, he was certain that the drag of teeth as his jaw tightened and he yanked himself up was not ideal. His arm jumped up to lay over Bilbo’s stomach.

He came up gasping, ready to ask for a chance to try again to better result, and paused, cock still brushing against his cheek as he struggled to breathe.

Bilbo was raised on his elbows, crown gone terribly askew, and mouth agape as he gazed downwards, incapable of speech.

So Thorin decided not to apologize and proceeded to try again. Without warning.

The sound Bilbo made….

That was…. well it would be inappropriate to have it written of in song, wouldn’t it? So Thorin would have to content himself with wringing it out of his hobbit whenever possible.

Half a scream and half a gasp. Entirely wrecked.

A hand caught on his wrist, and tried, pointlessly, to shift the arm that pinned him down.

It had been a few months, but surely Bilbo knew that he had no hope of succeeding.

“No, No no no. Oh, Thorin, let me move. You have to let me move. I can’t. I -- ahh -- _ahhhh_ \--- Thorin don’t you dare -- I need -- _let me move!_ ”

Thorin chuckled, swirling his tongue around the head, keeping his arm over the hobbit’s hips, far stronger than his best efforts to thrust upwards.

“I think I said,” Thorin swallowed, his voice having gone a bit hoarse, “said that I was going to make you beg.”

That was definitely a growl coming from Bilbo as he tried again to free himself. Noble as his efforts were, he had no impact on Thorin’s hold.

“You know how to get what you want.” He taunted, grazing his teeth over sensitive skin.

“And you’re -- you are very confident that -- that I -- will -- _hmmmmm_ \-- Thorin, let me move.”

“I’m waiting.” Beautiful as the wrecked orders sounded, amazing as the whimpering was, incredible as the fingers--now buried in his hair again-- were, Thorin was not going to cave on his plan. For the first time in far too long, his hobbit was going to beg.

That glare could have felled Azog, and they would be having words about the fact that Bilbo had never used it against the elves, but that would have to wait. Thorin kept his hand still, kept holding Bilbo’s now twitching cock upright, and, there was no other word for it, delicately, traced the vein along the underside. He stayed there at the root for a moment, breathing gently against sensitive skin. Then let his thumb drag along his stones. It would have been called kneading had it had any pressure behind it.

Instead it was a torment that unleashed a series of obscenities that Bilbo really shouldn’t have known unless Dwalin had been tutoring him in ways to start a brawl with a company of warriors.

“Such language, Master Baggins.”

“ _Dammit_ Thorin, this isn’t fair! You have to let me! _Mmmmmm_. Thorin!” He was still issuing orders as his voice cracked, and a pulse of pre-come trailed down his cock.

“You know what I expect of you.” He cupped his tongue and caught the line of fluid, following it back to the tip. “And I am rather more relaxed at the moment than you are. I can wait while you make up your mind.”

His thumb was still drawing meticulously slow circles, pulling tight the skin of his balls and slowly driving the hobbit mad. It was driving Thorin mad as well to be honest. His mouth kept trying to return to its task, kept trying to open wide and wrap around the ruddy flesh before him, kept wanting to taste again the salty rush that was the only flavor Thorin associated with Bilbo more than sweets. But he planned to win this.

So he left his thumb to its task and lifted his head, meeting Bilbo’s eye, and ignoring his usual recalcitrance. “If you would rather I continue to torture you like this I can, but I know that you want my mouth around you as badly as I do. I know you want me to let you move. And I’m not sure how long you’ll survive if I keep teasing you.” There went another khuzdul threat Bilbo shouldn’t have known. “I’m waiting.”

He lowered himself again and flattened his tongue, stationary against the head, and held there, looking up at the gorgeous, furious, wrecked hobbit held beneath him. When saliva built up in his mouth, he was forced to swallow, inadvertently dragging his tongue upwards as he did. That was the breaking point.

All of Bilbo’s prim self control evaporated and in a high, desperate tone, he began to stutter and ramble, hardly stopping to breathe, let alone check what he was saying. “ _Thorinnn_ , please. _Please_. Please let me move. Please I need you. I want you. Please have me, touch me, take me, anything, Thorin I’ll do anything. I’ll do anything for you, to you. Please, just let me move, let me come. Oh sweet Eru, Thorin, I need, this is, oh please, _Thorinnnn_.”

Thorin was absolutely weak when Bilbo begged.

He returned his tongue to it’s post as soon as he was able to stop his victorious smile. He sealed his lips over the tip.

Humming, he shifted his arm and finally allowed Bilbo to rock upwards.

Twin moans of relief sounded in the room as they got what they wanted; Thorin’s mouth full once more with Bilbo’s urgent cock.

The only reassurance necessary was Thorin settling the ring of his fingers against the nest of sandy curls. It was only to keep himself from choking, while allowing Bilbo to thrust. The feel of Bilbo rubbing along the top of his mouth, brushing against the back of his throat just enough to thrill him before pulling back sent most of the blood in Thorin’s head pooling downward. It was a much loved, and long missed sensation.

Still spilling pleas and promises around gasps and moans, Bilbo had his head thrown back and his hands buried in Thorin’s hair.

His hobbit only managed to thrust a dozen times before he came with a fractured shout.

Thorin swallowed, pleased and no small bit conscious of the interested tweak in his stomach at the taste of bitter salt on his tongue.

Getting himself under control, and knowing they both needed a break-- a short break, a pause, a momentary rest, and certainly nothing more lest Thorin fall apart with the need for more _in depth_ activity --he began to leave a trail of kisses as he  made his way back to Bilbo’s mouth. The brief nibbling of tightened nipples and pinked ears made the hobbit shudder and whisper for relief.

Thorin was straddling him once more, and turned Bilbo’s slack head up, loving the way he looked. The crown had just about fallen off during the squirming and the begging and the thrusting. Leaning down to kiss him he took his crown back, and sat it once more on his brow.

“I did say I would make you beg.” He answered the half-hearted scowl his theft had earned.

“So you did.” Bilbo pulled him down by the braids to kiss him sweetly, gently, lulling Thorin into calm before nipping sharply at his lip. “But the night is still young.”

And wasn’t that an excellent thought?

The impassioned desperate kisses they had begun with at the feast turned languid as Thorin slumped on the bed, tangled around each other. Bilbo caught the edge of the cloak and pulled it over himself, wiggling closer to Thorin’s chest.

“You,” He began imperiously, against Thorin’s mouth, “are going to have to make someone else deal with the elves.”

“Mhmm, whatever you wish. But, I thought you liked the elves.”

Bilbo nipped at him again, “I like them fine. I just don’t enjoy the free time there nearly as much. And I know that I’ll have to go back at some point. And there’s no chance that you would travel with me. So, that’s that. If you want to continue all this, you’re going to have to fire me Thorin.”

Thorin could feel the smirk against his neck.

“If you insist Bilbo, consider yourself without employment.”

Bilbo chuckled, and was just beginning to calm his breathing when they heard the door in the main room open, then a moment later close. The baffled look Thorin was given bordered right on the edge of concern. As if they might be interrupted again. As if their night might be cut short.

As if Bilbo was going to have to beat someone to death with a fruit platter to prevent that from happening.

He kissed Bilbo’s forehead in reassurance.

“I asked the servers to bring something up.”

“What?”

“Dessert.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whats that? It's not marked complete? Oh, yes, well..... see..... that'll be because I decided to split the chapter after all.   
> You know.... This was supposed to be a fast PWP once upon a time. *sigh* And I can't even blame anyone. This is all my fault, and I know that.

**Author's Note:**

> All hail [Mephestopheles](http://archiveofourown.org/users/mephestopheles/pseuds/mephestopheles), most marvelous of Betas.
> 
> And yes, This happened because of a comment from Avelera, and then my brain got started, and now you get chaptered smut.
> 
> You know I love hearing from you all, so feel free to tell me if I'm doing it wrong, or anything else you'd like to say. Even if I blush because I wrote this.


End file.
